


Still Hear the Whistlin' Wire

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Buckaroo Fringe [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock overtones, Alcohol as pain relief, Alternate Universe - Western, Awkward questions, Blood, Bullets, Doctor John, Doctor Sherlock, Drinking to numb the pain figuratively and literally, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief, I'm Sorry, Injured Greg, Injured John, Insomnia, Irene doubts herself, Irene invents lies as she needs them, Irene is protective, Irene mothers Sherlock, It's too much to hope for a bit of peace, John doesn't like being left out, John has to manage everything, John is protective, John isn't always successful, Lestrade has stories to tell, Minor Character Death, Mrs Holmes considers Irene part of the family, Mrs Hudson mothers everyone, Nightmares, OFC - Freeform, Opium, Pregnancy, Retirementlock, Self-Reflection, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Worries, Sherlock deletes irrelevant information, Sherlock gets them thrown into the Hudson River, Sherlock is bitter and frustrated, Sherlock overworks himself, Sherlock says more than he should, Show-off John, Snow, Sort-of Parentlock, Supportive John, Tags to be added, The boys are getting old, They Don't Talk About it, Vague references to prostitution, Withdrawal, Wounds, blizzard, gunfight, reference to abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had many adventures and mishaps throughout their time in the west, and indeed afterwards too. These are just some of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 1879

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place post-'At Break of Dawn'

Within two days of leaving Prescott in the company of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson is regretting his decision. Not that he doesn’t want to go to Colorado or has any particular urge for the gambling tables or doesn’t like riding such long distances, mind. It’s more the fact that his traveling companion, the afore-said Holmes, has to keep stopping to vomit.

Thank Christ they’re not in any particular rush to get there.

“I knew we should have stayed in town for another week,” John mutters, holding Sherlock’s horse by the reins as its master heaves up that morning’s coffee by the side of the road. It had, after all, been Sherlock’s idea to leave so fast, leading John to suspect that he wanted to get away from his brother. As soon as the initial withdrawal illness passed, he insisted that they mount up and ride out. John, fool that he is, listened, and now look at where they are! Two days out of town and Sherlock damn near bringing his guts up because he couldn’t wait for the full withdrawal phase to pass. The expression “stubborn as a mule” just doesn’t cut it.

John sighs, eyes roving over the plains where they’ve found themselves. There’s a river to the north – so Sherlock says - that they’ll probably hit around noon, and if Sherlock hasn’t much improved by then John plans to suggest that they hole up there until morning and see how he is after some rest. Passed that river, who can rightly say what they’ll find anyway? It’s not as if there are helpful signs with _Next River, 50 miles_ etched onto them. Though that’s certainly an innovative idea. Probably some eccentric will erect them sometime.

It’s not much of a road that they’re on either, it’s more of a beaten-in trail which is hardly there in some spots. God help them if they get lost out here. There won’t even be cowhands to come across them – the land is too dry, though there is grass(turning gradually from green to brown) and not much in the way of herds has moved in out here just yet. All he can do is hope that Sherlock knows the way as well as he claims, or is half as good a tracker as he claims. John has never rued more his own inability at tracking. It was one of those things the Ranger captains he served under complained about for the few months that he was there.

Sherlock straightens up, swaying a little on the spot as he wipes his mouth. “I’m fine,” he says to John’s unasked question, voice hoarse, then wraps the reins around his hand and pulls himself onto his horse’s back. He takes the water canteen that John hands him and swills a mouthful before spitting it into the dust and swallowing another one.

“Onwards then.” Sherlock shakes up his horse and lopes off, John despairing as he follows.

It’s going to be a long way to Colorado.


	2. August 1881

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between 'At Break of Dawn' and 'Cities of the West'

“I think you’re better off staying out of it this time, John,” Sherlock says, running a hand through his curls and putting on his hat. “You’re not going to be able to manage a gun with your arm like that, and Lancaster is fast. He’ll have a bullet in you before you have time to consider otherwise.” He nods towards John’s right arm, heavy bandages hiding the stitches that Sherlock himself put there only a few hours ago, closing up the deep four-inch wound which has torn the skin open.

It was Lancaster who did it, jumped John as he was walking back to the hotel and knifed his arm in the ensuing fray. John managed to get away and Lancaster ran for it, leaving town within the hour. When Sherlock saw the damage, he insisted on stitching the wound, though John tried to convince him that he could – being left-handed – manage it perfectly well.

“It’s fine.” John looks him square in the eye as he says it. “My right hand may be my shooting hand but my left isn’t too bad either. You know that as well as I do. I got us out of that bust-up in Santa Fé only last month, remember?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I remember, I just think –“

“Don’t _think_ anything.” John’s voice is a growl. “ _You’re_ the one who said we should come here, therefore _you’re_ the one who got us into this mess, and so help me, but I’m not going to let you get killed for it, so don’t think for a second that I will. Besides,” he shrugs, drawing on an air of unconcerned nonchalance, “your brother would probably kill me if I did.”

He turns towards the barn wall and flexes his left hand. Excellent though it is for surgery, it’s always been a little rusty when it comes to combat, as Sherlock rightfully pointed out not five minutes ago when they got into this debate. John pushes it from his mind and draws his revolver, taking aim at the wall and firing.

He steps back when the chamber is emptied and holsters the gun, turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, is staring at the wooden wall, eyes wide and blinking and face pale. “Well,” he says swallowing, “well.”

John smirks. “You see, I am perfectly capable of defending myself should the need arise. There is no need for me to stay behind while you and Sherman go lolly-gagging across the country after Lancaster, getting yourselves shot to pieces in the process. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a horse to saddle.” He turns and walks into the livery, leaving Sherlock to stare silently at the large W shot into the timber.


	3. December 1883

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between 'Into the Wind' and 'Long and Winding Road'

“There’s whiskey in the cabinet,” Greg murmurs, studying the bandages around his torso in the mirror that John put on the desk. “Christ, he fairly got me, didn’t he?”

John grunts an assent, pulling out a dusty bottle and two shot glasses. “You were lucky.” He sets the glasses down on the desk between the mirror and his bag of instruments, then uncorks the bottle and pours a couple of fingers for each of them. “Good stuff,” he adds, taking a sip from his own glass. “How long have you had this bottle, Greg?”

“Almost a year now.” Greg groans as he leans back in his chair, pressing a hand to the stitches in his side, now covered. “Sherlock gave it to me last Christmas, after getting all of those complimentary bottles off the drummer that he solved a case for.” He regrets his words instantly as a shadow darkens John’s face at the mere mention of Sherlock’s name. His own heart thuds painfully. This time last year, it would be hard to believe how everything went to hell within a few months. “I’m sorry, I –“ He’s not even sure why he’s apologising. Must be the whiskey getting to his head already.

“No, it’s fine. I just,” John swallows, voice hoarse as he looks at a point just over Greg’s shoulder. “Sometimes I just wonder whether he might be still alive out there, making by on his own. Sometimes I think we should have looked harder for him, but if he was alive and wanted to be found, then he would be found. Not to mention we would have risked everybody else and no guarantee of finding him. I just,” and he motions aimlessly with his hand, eyes glistening.

Greg nods. “I know.” And he does know. How many nights has he spent since, wondering whether things might have been different if he’d been there, wondering if there could be a chance of Sherlock still being alive? He can’t count the amount of times he’s let himself slip into a fantasy of Sherlock riding into town one day, perfectly fine and healthy, saying that he’d been saved by some settler family passing through who nursed him back to health. If they only knew what became of him after he and John split up, then it would all be easier.

Of course, he has a good idea of what happened, but he doesn’t say this to John who is now working his way through his third glass of whiskey. More than likely, either Sherlock’s horse tripped and threw him or one of the men in pursuit shot him. Maybe getting thrown from the horse did for him, if he struck his head or fell a long way, both reasonable possibilities, or maybe the men caught up and shot him while he was on the ground. The odds of him still being alive are so low as to be damn near non-existent and yet, yet Greg still allows himself to imagine.

Aside from John surviving the whole affair, it’s the one comfort he has left now. So if John wants to entertain the possibility that Sherlock might be alive somewhere, Greg’s not going to stop him. They all need something to cling to now.

The doctor is pale, and Greg sighs into his own whiskey, before smiling at him. Of course, they still have stories left. “Did I ever tell you,” he begins, “about the first night I met Sherlock?”


	4. October 1885

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between 'Long and Winding Road' and 'Prairie Fire'

It’s the bump against the door that wakes her. She wasn’t asleep, not really, it was more of a light doze. Though it’s months since she took back over the Comique, staying in one place for more than a few weeks and not being constantly on the alert are adjustments and not ones she’s making easily. So when the bump comes to the bedroom door, she snaps awake. It’s difficult to remember how to live normally.

She rolls out of bed and lifts a coat off the back of the chair, folding herself in it as she shuffles across the dark room. She turned down the oil lamp some time ago, and the light filtering in from the window is minimal at best.

The key grates as she turns it in the lock. She grits her teeth against it and swings the door open, warily eyeing the silhouette swaying there.

“Sorry, Irene, I . . .” Sherlock trails off and she sighs, wrapping one arm around his waist and leading him in, the door banging shut behind them. Night terrors, of course. Again.

“It’s all right, Sherlock.” Her voice is hoarse from the sleep that she barely had, but it doesn’t matter. She guides him to the bed and lays him down, before fumbling for the matches on the locker. She strikes one match and lights the lamp, watching as he blinks rapidly, hair tousled and hat left behind him in Mrs Hudson’s. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head, resting now on one of her pillows and closes his eyes. “Not particularly. Do you mind?” _Does she mind if he stays here tonight._ It’s a question he asks every time.

“No. You stay as long as you want.” _As long as you need._ She lies back down beside him, pulling the bed covers over them both. “You need sleep just like everybody else.”

“Hmmm.” He’s drifting off already, she can feel it. It brings her a measure of relief. She doesn’t close her eyes, not yet, and when she’s sure that he’s asleep, she throws the covers off, opens his belt, loosens his trousers and pulls off his boots. He’ll sleep easier like that.

In the morning, he’ll pretend that this never happened. He’ll get up, brush back his curls, put on his boots, fix himself and leave. He’ll tell John whatever it is that he tells him when this happens, that he went for an early morning walk to get his mind to rest or something similar. And she won’t mention that he was talking to himself in his sleep again. They’ll both carry on, as they are so used to doing, putting a face on for the crowd. But for tonight there is this, sleeping chastely next to each other in her bad, both keeping the memories of the last few years at bay. And that is enough.


	5. December 1886

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between 'Prairie Fire' and 'If We Knew Then Now What We Know'

As if the last year hasn't been bad enough there has to be snow. It's not the snow that bothers him so much as the amount of it, and the casualties. It snowed for three days straight only last week, and in the end that was what prompted him to do what he could.

Of course, he can't stop the weather.

He leans on the handle of his shovel and surveys the landscape. As far as he can see there are cattle half-buried in the snow, struggling to pull themselves free.  And cowhands with shovels like him trying to dig them out and herd them away, so that they'll at least have some chance.

Some of the herds - or at least, members of the herds - have made it to higher ground. The battle for them will be to find grass, and water. But there's nothing much that can be done.

He's never been one for hope. Always felt that there was no point to it, because hope has no power of its own to change anything. Now he wishes that he could believe in something like hope. Another novelty, wishing.

But damn it all, he didn’t get shot for this. And the shoulder’s protesting at the physical work, and what else is he supposed to do, let them all die?

What was the point of working so hard to bring in these cattle, after everything that's happened, only for them to freeze or starve to death? The burial pits are covered, the pyre-scars hidden. It's almost as if it never happened and now . . .

Now it's all ending again.

He looks over at John, working alongside Wiggins to dig out a cow who's been caught in a snow bank. She's some sort of a crossbred, Whitehead and Longhorn at a glance, the mix giving her a mottled coat which hangs too loose and too dull on her thin frame, ribs pushing through the skin in spite of the heavy belly which shows that she’s in calf. The odds of her carrying to term have decreased since these storms blew in. Like many others, there’s every chance that her’s will not be a happy story.

It’s nauseating. Grotesquely frozen carcasses fill the canyons and the draws where the cattle sought shelter only be pelted by snow and hail and killed. He hasn’t seen so many carcasses in seven months. It’s an odd comfort to think that at least those were going up in flames or into the ground and won’t be hanging around until the thaw comes. (If it comes. If there are any coyotes or wolves or buzzards left to take them.)

There have been human casualties too, further north. Families snowed into their dug-out houses and lost. Down here, Robards the rancher died in the storm when he was trying to get back to the house. They dug him out of one the drifts yesterday, his hands frozen to the reins of his horse, the two of them sculpture preserved in ice.

Wild theories are absurd and yet, yet his mind races away on him as he manages to get the steer free. The animal staggers away, legs numb and stiff, likely frost-bitten. Could this be the end of the world? First a plague in the form of the foot and mouth, and now swirling white, the land blanketed and hidden, water frozen, food supply cut off. Is this atonement for their sins, as he’s so often heard travelling preachers mention?

Or is this simply one of those things, another catastrophe that they’ll fight through and survive?

Survive is all that they can try to do now.


	6. June 1890

A bullet ricochets off the rock in front of Sherlock, sending sharp stone shards into his face. He squeezes his eyes closed, face stinging.

“You all right?” Lestrade asks, leaning over so that Sherlock can hear him over the gunfire.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open, unconscious tears leaking out as he nods and takes a sight. “Yes.” He squeezes the trigger, but the distance is too far and he misses. “Dammit.”

“Your forehead’s bleeding.”

Sherlock’s realised this for himself, considering that some of the blood has reached his eye and he has to wipe it out. “Doesn’t matter.” He shifts his position, and sights the man whose bullet ricocheted off the rock. This time, his mark is good. The man drops back behind his own rock.

A long groan, and at Lestrade’s other side Lee slips back, the rifle falling from his hands, blood splattering Lestrade’s cheek. Lestrade makes to catch him, but John is already there, easing him down and assessing the damage.

“Sherlock, I need a hand, come here.” John’s voice is strained, and Sherlock doesn’t need to look before dropping his rifle and twisting around Lestrade. Already the front of Lee’s shirt is soaked in blood, eyes rolling in his pale face, a whimper coming from his lips, breaths fast and shallow. “Help me move him back.”

Sherlock nods, and they move Lee out of the line of fire. John sets to work straightaway, tearing off Lee’s shirt and turning him on his side to assess the damage. It’s a bad wound, the bullet gone fully through and out his back, and the set of John’s jaw tells the outcome already. Sherlock swallows back the nausea that burns his throat, pulling off his neckerchief and pressing it to the hole in Lee’s back as John battles to staunch the bleeding from his chest, murmuring gentle reassurances to Lee’s whimpering that he likely can’t hear, the words half-drowned out by the continuing shots from the front.

The neckerchief is soaked through with blood. Lee’s rasping breaths are getting weaker, and John’s eyes meet Sherlock. He shakes his head just slightly, still murmuring softly and pressing his fingers to Lee’s neck.

“How’s Lee?” Donovan’s voice echoes back to them, but neither Sherlock nor John answer her.

The rasping stops, and John sighs, feeling hollow and sitting back on his heels as he wipes a hand over his face, streaks of blood marring his cheeks. “That’s –“ His words are cut off by a gasp, and he slumps back.

* * *

 

John seems to hear Sherlock’s voice from a long way away, calling his name. All he can feel is the pain, burning his leg. The sky is wondrously blue in spite of it, but the _pain._ Sherlock’s face, pale and bloody, blocks the sky from his view. Sherlock’s saying something, but John can’t hear it, and he frowns. There’s pressure on his leg, and the pain burns hotter, and Sherlock’s lips quiver, eyes worried.

“Are you all right?” The words are muffled, but this time John hears them. He nods.

“Yes.” At least, he thinks he is, and he forces a smile, slipping a hand down to examine where the pain is worst. Sherlock’s hand – well, it must be Sherlock’s hand, because it’s certainly not John’s hand – is pressed to it with some sort of cloth. John twists his head, and sees that it’s his own neckerchief. Funny, he doesn’t remember taking it off. “Take it away and let me see.”

“John –“

“Now.” His voice is firm in spite of the pain, and Sherlock obliges, moving back so John can see. “It’s only a scratch.” It’s a little more than a scratch, but nothing serious, thank God. “Help me bandage it and then I’ll get back to the front.”

Sherlock still looks unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Now get to it.”

 


	7. April 1891

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between 'If We Knew Then Now What We Know' and 'Riding Job',

It was a shock to receive Irene Adler’s letter, if she’s being perfectly honest with herself. She likes the girl, and they get on very well, but in all of the length of their acquaintance Irene has never written her, nor vice versa, though she knows that Irene is a regular correspondent of Sherlock’s. So the letter was a surprise, mostly for the fact that it wasn’t addressed to Sherlock this time, but very definitely to her.

Martha Hudson smiles at the memory. She received it a month ago, a very polite enquiry as to whether or not Irene could join them in the house outside Cheyenne. She stated that her situation had changed, and didn’t specify how, but Martha Hudson is a woman of the world and understands these things.

She keeps her own counsel on the subject, doesn’t mention anything about the letter to Sherlock or John, but she replies to it very kindly that _of course_ she can join them. They’d be delighted to have her.

That’s how they came to be here, sitting in the kitchen sharing coffee, Irene pale with exhaustion and worry, Martha offering her biscuits and letting her take her own time. She was considerate enough to send a wire from Denver, giving Martha plenty of time to prepare a room and do some baking. If only Sherlock would learn to do that more often, then all would be right with the world.

Irene sighs, refusing to meet Martha eyes and instead looking down at her hands wrapped around her coffee cup. “I’m pregnant,” her voice is quiet. It’s the most she’s spoken at a single time since arriving, bless her, perched in her seat as if she’s ready to take off at a moment’s word. She can’t have had an easy time of it lately.

Martha smiles, sipping at her own coffee. “I know.” And she does. It’s obvious, right down to the choice of the word _situation_ in the letter. A child out of wedlock is still such a shameful thing, after all.

Irene jumps, finally looking at her, eyes wide in shock. “How?”

“I guessed. It wasn’t really that difficult, dear. When is the child due?” Kindness is undoubtedly the best way to find out more.

The poor girl still looks nervously worried, in spite of her slight smile at the mention of the child. “October, I think. More than likely.” She stops, and turns the coffee cup in her hands, looking away from Martha again. “I don’t know who the father is.”

Martha doubts if that’s quite true. Very possibly – considering her profession, which certainly isn’t suitable for raising a child – she isn’t certain on who the father is, but it’s likely that she has some idea. It doesn’t much matter, anyway. There are children who’ve come into the world far worse off. She reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of Irene’s. “It’s all right, dear. Stay here as long as you want and we’ll do our best by you.”

Irene still looks uncertain. “But what will Sherlock think? And John? When are you expecting them back?”

“They’ve been helping that lovely Marshal Lestrade in Utah with a case, but they should be back this evening or in the morning. They won’t mind, and if they do, I’ll have a very stern word with them. I promise.”

Irene smiles a watery smile, and nods. “Thank you.”

“Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re far better off here than in Austin. Now, you should get some rest. You’ve had a long trip, and you don’t want to take too many chances.”


	8. October 1891

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between 'If We Knew Then Now What We Know' and 'Riding Job'.

“How are you feeling this morning?” John’s voice is pitched quiet, so as not to disturb the baby asleep in her basket. It’s been a long night to put it mildly, and Irene still looks exhausted but she works up a smile anyway, running a gentle hand over the baby’s light blonde fluffy hair. The little girl doesn’t stir, delicate lips parted as she breathes slowly.

“A little sore, but not too bad. I suppose that’s normal, is it?” Irene’s voice is hoarse and John smiles reassuringly at her.

“Yes, that’s perfectly normal.”

 “Good.” She sinks back against the pillows, sighing in relief. “Where’s Sherlock?”

John chuckles, folding away his stethoscope. “He’s gone to Cheyenne. I believe he might be wiring Mycroft with the news, so he’ll probably send word to Greg as well.”

“He really doesn’t mind?”

“If he did you’d know about it by now. If anything, he seems to be quite pleased about it. You’d swear she was his own daughter.” He smiles to himself as the baby shifts slightly in her sleep. “And you’re sure you don’t know who the father is?”

“I’m sure, John. Just like I’ve been sure every other time that you or Mrs Hudson or Sherlock has asked me in the last six months.”

“Right. Sorry.” He really should stop asking, he just finds it difficult to comprehend that Irene doesn’t know who the father is of her own child. It’s to be expected, of course, but still. Not knowing feels like there’s something missing from the picture, though he supposes it really doesn’t matter. He’ll be a father to the baby if he has to, or at least as much as a father as he can. “Have you decided what you’re going to name her?”

The grin that crosses Irene’s face is something that he hasn’t seen in a long time, not since this whole business started. She’s been too nervous and worried about the birth to smile much. “Lorena. Lorena Clara Vernet. I’ll stick to the story that everyone already knows that I’m Sherlock’s widowed little sister. It’ll give Lorena some protection.” Already the love she has for her daughter is clear in her voice. “I’ve named her after a girl who passed through San Pedro about ten years ago now. She, well she was like me, you know? But she got out of it faster. She met an old Ranger who was bringing cattle north and fell in with him. He got killed in an ambush, but he left his half of the herd to her. I met her in Austin last year and she told me about it, and how she used some of the money to set up a schoolhouse in the Panhandle. If my Lorena has half her courage, she’ll be doing well.” Her eyes mist over slightly, and John hugs her.

“She will. Of course she will. She has you for a mother, and you’re probably the most courageous woman I know. You helped to take down Moriarty’s network, and you made your own fortune with little or no help. Of course Lorena will do well.”

She’s crying. John’s shoulder is damp, and he strokes back her hair. “I don’t know if I’m cut out to be much of a mother.” Her voice is muffled.

“You’ll be a brilliant mother. You’ve already gotten this far, when many others in your position wouldn’t have. You know that as well as I do, you’ve seen it yourself.” He’s referring to a girl in San Pedro, years and years ago, who tried to abort her baby. She ended up dying of blood loss in spite of all of his best efforts. Thank God Irene had more sense than to try and go down that route. ”And you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll help, and Mrs Hudson, and if Sherlock’s reaction last night is anything to go by then he’ll help too. Where you’ve come from won’t matter.” She nods against his shoulder, and he kisses her forehead chastely. “It will be all just fine. I promise.”


	9. October 1892

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 'Riding Job'. As a little historical context, the cattle war referenced is the Johnson County War of April 1892.

Sherlock is soundly asleep in his chair by the fire, head tipped back, hair mussed, the book he’d been reading fallen to the floor. Lorena, a year old today, is asleep too, tucked in tight against him, her fingers wrapped around one of his.

It could be a long time before John and Irene come back. There’s a woman giving birth in the town, a difficult labour by all accounts, and so John was sent for. He invited Irene to come along with him, for help, he said, though no doubt part of it is to give her some time out of the house, talking to other people. It was good of him to bring her, Martha decides, stoking the fire. She needs the break, even if attending a labour isn’t the most restful of things.

And Sherlock too, bless him, needs the break of a night in. It’s been such a long year for the all, from Lorena’s birth to now, but especially for him. Just when it looked like things might be settling down when Lorena recovered from her pneumonia, the cattle war broke out. Though it was short-lived, Sherlock’s spent the last six months working on it almost solo, leaving John out of it as much as possible so that he can focus on other things. It was probably the best thing to do, though God knows they worry about Sherlock anyway, and how hard he’s pushing himself to try and secure the necessary convictions. He only got back from Johnson County yesterday, after another round of considering the evidence and seeing the landscape again.

He reminds Martha of her own son at times like this, the way he could get stuck on something and plough through it regardless of everything else. Had he lived, he’d be about Irene’s age, Martha supposes. But of course, he didn’t live. He was simply too loyal to his father and the insistence that he fight alongside him when the others came did for him in the end. Of course, that’s all a good sixteen years ago now. Sherlock came along not long after Joe’s death, and ensured Frank’s hanging for her so she could get away from that life.

But she’s never forgotten Joe, and he comes back to her more and more in the last year since Lorena arrived. Like her, he almost didn’t survive his first year. Pneumonia, too. And when he did come through it he was always a sickly child, pale and frail but stubborn, and it was the stubbornness that ensured he even got to have nineteen years.

Martha looks away from the fire and composes herself. There’s no use in getting upset over it now. It’s away and away gone and there’s nothing to change it.

Lorena jumps in her sleep and wakes crying. Sherlock’s too exhausted for it to wake him, but Martha lifts the little girl gently and cradles her close.

“Shush, now, dearie. It’s all right. It was just a dream. There’s nothing to be scared of. There, there.” She pats Lorena’s back, and rocks her back and forth. She settles before long, hiccoughing to herself, and cuddling into Martha.

“Sher vi,” she mumbles into Martha’s neck and Martha chuckles.

“I know, sweetie. You want Sherlock to play his violin. But he’s very tired now, so we have to let him sleep, all right?” She’s not sure how much of what she says Lorena can understand, but _Sherlock_ and _violin_ are words she definitely picks up on.

“Vi,” she insists, her eyes slipping closed as Martha continues to sway on the spot with her.

“Tomorrow. He’ll play it tomorrow, all right?”

But Lorena is already asleep, and Martha smiles to herself. “Back to your crib, little missie.” John made the crib once it became clear that Lorena would soon outgrow her basket. It took him several days, and the first version had to be broken up again it was such a disaster. But he kept at it as he is wont to do, and got there in the end.

Now, Martha carries little Lorena into Irene’s room and tucks her in, careful that she won’t get cold and also won’t over heat, then kisses her on the forehead. “Sleep well.” She sighs, and leaves as quiet as she can, only half-closing the door so she can hear if Lorena wakes.

Sherlock is still asleep in his chair when Martha gets back. She shakes his shoulder gently, and then rougher until he grumbles.

“Wha-What is it, John?” He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, probably hoping that it’s something small and he can go to sleep again, though, really, sleeping in a chair like that is going to hurt both his back and his shoulder and he’ll spend tomorrow complaining over it.

“I certainly wasn’t John the last time I checked.”

At her voice he jumps, eyes snapping open. “Mrs Hudson, what? Where’s Lorena?”

She can see the panic creeping into his eyes that Lorena might have crawled off and gotten herself into trouble while he slept. Martha smiles. “Lorena is asleep in her crib. And you are going to go to bed so you don’t put out your back sleeping in that chair. You’re not getting any younger, you know, and remember the last time you couldn’t go on cases? I’ve met bears that were friendlier than you were.”

He nods meekly, and she helps to pull him to his feet, a groan escaping his lips as he cracks his back. “Yes, Mrs Hudson.”

Martha nods emphatically. “Good. Now be off with yourself. I’ve a room to tidy and you’re getting in the way.”


	10. July 1896

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 'Riding Job'.

“She’s very like Sherlock at that age,” Mrs Holmes – Louisa, she must remember to call her Louisa – says, smiling at Irene across the kitchen table. The night’s getting late. Lorena is already asleep, worn out by all of the travelling. “I can’t tell you how many times I had to carry him out of William’s study. He was always trying to read some book or other, even if they were far too advanced for him. I blame Mycroft, myself. Sherlock’s youth didn’t count for much with him when he wanted to explain something.”

Irene chuckles. It’s not the first time she’s met Mrs Holmes –Louisa, dammit – but it is the first time she’s heard about Sherlock’s childhood misadventures. “Mycroft’s still like that, really. He sat down with Lorena not long ago and tried to explain to her what politics is. She told him it was nonsense, and asked if he could tell her a highwayman story instead,” she says, smiling at the memory.

Louisa laughs, a rich, full laugh very like Sherlock’s when he allows himself that much freedom. “She is so like Sherlock, though he usually requested pirates.”

Irene allows herself to sober up, and sighs. “Thank you again for taking us in, Louisa. I don’t know what we would have done otherwise.”

“There’s no need for that, Irene. It’s my pleasure to have you two. Not to mention that my sons would never forgive me otherwise. The things you’ve done for this family, and New York is no place for a woman on her own with a child, even if you have come up with a good story.” She shrugs, leaning back in her chair, a glint in her eye. “And anyway. A girl needs a proper education. She can hardly get that in Wyoming, no matter how hard you all try. The world’s changing, even if most people don’t realise that yet, and so she’s going to need all of the degrees that she can get.”

This practical slant is the same spin that Mycroft put on the situation when Irene first suggested going east in order to send Lorena to the best schools. Four and a half might be a bit young to start, but she’s already so much more advanced than most of the children that they know that it seems logical. She can get a tutor for a few years, and Louisa will help out however she can – she’s said as much in her letters. Deep down, Irene knows it’s the right thing to do, but still she has her doubts. She doesn’t like dragging her daughter away from the mountains and the horses that she loves, and the only family that she’s ever really known in Sherlock and John and Mrs Hudson. And Irene herself never much liked all of the tutors and lessons that her own parents insisted she have. It’s one of the things that convinced her to run off in the first place.

But Lorena is different. Irene just hopes she’s different enough that she won’t resent this upheaval. She’s taken it well so far, however long that may last.


	11. September 1898

_“Of all of the times,” Greg coughs, a slender trail of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, ”for you to remember my name,” he gasps, “it had to be now.” He pants hard, eyes flickering over Sherlock’s face, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead._

_Sherlock makes a strangled sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “It had to be sometime.”_

_Greg groans as John leans down on the wound again. It’s a futile effort – his hands and the shirt he’s using to keep pressure on the bullet hole are slick with blood. And there’s more coming pumping out, Greg’s eyes fluttering closed though he’s still breathing. Still breathing._

_Sherlock looks as if he’s about to faint, swaying on the spot, his own blood mixing with Greg’s, eyes glazed and hollow, one hand still gripping the bloodied Marshal’s badge that Greg pressed into it. John watches him, waiting for the moment when he has to forget Greg – dying under his hands – and catch Sherlock so he doesn’t injure himself more._

_And there’s blood everywhere. Blood on his clothes, blood on his face, blood soaking the sand and dust beneath his knees. Greg gives a peculiar little shudder. A gasp, a sigh._

_And it’s done._

John gasps, eyes snapping open, the darkness of his bedroom pressing down on him. Sand and blood. Blood and sand. Blood and sand and the two of them mixing together to a background of harsh, rapid breaths. It’s not real. _It’s not real_.

It is real. This time his nightmares are real.

He swallows and sits up, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. Sleep won’t come again tonight. Every time he’ll close his eyes he’ll be confronted with hollow eyes and blood-stained clothes and his own utter helplessness. There was nothing that could be done, only watch.

He never wants to go through anything like that again.

He’s still dressed, having been unable to bring himself to change his clothes. It makes it that much easier to shuffle out to the front room.

There’s a fire on in the grate. Not an excellent fire, by any means, but a fire nonetheless. By rights it should have gone out hours ago, and then John sees why it’s still alive – Sherlock, sitting in his chair staring into it, precisely where John left him earlier with orders to take a dose of laudanum and go to bed. He doesn’t stir as John crosses the room and settles into his own chair.

The fire doesn’t afford much light, but it is enough to see that Sherlock is still wearing the torn and bloodied shirt he’s had on all day, his bandages visible under it. It was his ribs that saved him, the bullet scorched along the edge of one of them, cutting right through to the bone. If it had been over another little bit – well, then John would have had two bodies to bring back for burial. (He almost did. He wasn’t able to bandage Sherlock while they were still out there – the wound was too deep and needed too many stitches for that, not to mention disinfecting. So he staunched the blood flow which was slowing by then anyway and tied Sherlock into the saddle – as well that he did, because he passed out halfway back and John had to lead both Redbeard and Greg’s horse – with his body tied to it – home.)

The firelight glints off the corner of Greg’s Marshal’s badge, still clutched tightly in Sherlock’s hand. _I’ve no more use for it where I’m going_ he’d whispered as he pulled it off his shirt and passed it over to Sherlock, the words punctuated by coughs and hisses of pain. Later, Sherlock gripped it so tight while John was tending to his injuries that the edges sliced the palm of his hand open. He simply transferred it over to his other hand while John bandaged the injured one, the pain numbed slightly by the whisky that he’d drunk.

Now, that bandaged hand is wrapped around his half-empty whisky glass. A single tear – illuminated by the fire – clings to his eyelashes, and John’s throat constricts at the sight of it. Of course Sherlock hasn’t gone to bed – his dreams would be the same as the one that woke John, or worse. He already has plenty of fodder for his nightmares.

John sighs and stands, walking over to the liquor cabinet and fetching another glass and two more bottles of whisky. He won’t be able to persuade Sherlock to go to bed, so he may stay up with him and at least make sure that he doesn’t pass out in his chair. Perhaps Sherlock’s right to be drinking tonight. It’ll keep some of these memories at bay, for now.


	12. March 1900

Irene. Sweet Irene. Good Irene. She’ll take care of him. She always does, especially when he’s been drinking and really there’s only so much that John can do.

She guides him up the stairs, gentle, careful as ever and more so now, in light of the circumstances. He doubts if she realises she’s going the wrong way.

“This is the way to your room,” he murmurs, tongue heavy with the whisky he’s drunk.

She smiles at him, kindly and a little sadly, because of course she was quite fond of his mother and now . . . Now. “I know.” And her voice is soft on his ears, soft enough that he could enfold himself in it and it would protect from the waiting pain once the whisky wears off. “How about once more, for old time’s sake?”

“All right.”

Her hand around his back is steadying as she leads him down the hall, a warmth that slightly fills the hollowness in his chest. She’s always been so good to him, so caring though he’s brushed her off as often as not. And she’s always mattered so much, he’s always trusted her though he’s never said the words as far as he can remember. If he said them now, she wouldn’t give him any credence, would put it down to the drinking, so he has to stay quiet.

When he used to live here, her room was a guest room, reserved for when his mother’s relations would visit from Virginia. It’s changed now. She has settled into it, made it her own, and it’s much more bearable than it was then. She closes the door behind them and slips his jacket off, hanging it on the back of the door before moving on to unbutton his waistcoat. He tries to help her, but he can only fumble at the buttons, the whisky ruining his co-ordination.

She presses a chaste kiss to his throat, and he kisses her forehead right before she pushes him onto the bed. She crawls in beside him without removing her black dress, wrapping her arms around him beneath the covers.

“Get some sleep,” she whispers, cuddling into him as she has so many times before. “You haven’t slept since you got here. Your mother wouldn’t want-“

“My mother’s dead, Irene. She doesn’t have a say anymore.” Saying the words, acknowledging that his mother’s really gone, makes his eyes burn. The tears are unexpected. At any time in the past when the possibility of his mother’s death crossed his mind the possibility of crying over her never followed it. He didn’t cry when his father died, albeit he certainly felt strange for a few months afterwards. He didn’t even cry over Mrs Hudson, and she was a bigger presence in his life in the end than his mother. “I just . . . I wish . . . I don’t understand it. How is she dead, Irene? How? She’s not supposed to be dead.” His voice breaks completely, the tears rushing forth.

“It’s all right, Sherlock. It’s all right,” she murmurs, hugging him, moving so that his head is tucked in against her chest like a child. “It’s all right to cry. There’s nothing wrong with it. She’s dead because these things happen. People get old, they get ill, they die. There’s nothing new about it, no mystery. It just happens.” Her heart twists seeing him like this. Her own mother’s death was so long ago that she hardly even remembers the woman, never mind how she felt afterwards, though she assumes there were tears. And after her father she cried quietly in Austin before picking herself up to go to New York to see to his affairs. And it hurt, it hurt like hell and sometimes still does when she dwells on it, but she can’t say any of that to Sherlock. Maybe there’s nothing that she can say to him, except lie here like this and soothe him as if he were Lorena.

It’s not enough, and she wishes that she had more to give to him. But she’s given him so much already that there’s nothing left except this. And maybe this is enough. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe there is nothing that she or anyone else can do that would be enough to ease the pain that he tries so hard to deny. But maybe none of that matters, and it’s only being here that counts in the end.

This much, at least, she can do.


	13. December 1902

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 'Riding Job'

“I’m so bored,” Lorena groans from where she’s stretched on the couch in front of the fire. “So bored. Bored bored bored bored bored.”

“You are so like your father.” Irene doesn’t mean to say it, not really. She just snaps, and who can blame her? It’s too much, all too much. Sherlock and John gone to investigate a foot and mouth outbreak, Lorena complaining of her complete and utter boredom even though she could be studying or composing if she wanted to, and what’s there for her, Irene, to do? Wait at home quietly as if it’s all all right, even though it really isn’t? Well that’s such a perfect solution to everything, isn’t it?

Her words achieve the desired effect of silencing Lorena. Irene can almost hear the pricking of her ears from this distance and curses inwardly.

“My father?” It’s a question, one which has a very Sherlockian smirk to it because Irene has heard that tone before from both of them and knows that it means danger. She’s fishing for information, and Irene is struggling to remember the lies she’s told about the characteristics of the “father” who supposedly got killed before Lorena was born.

She decides on this occasion to just go for a cover-up. “Sherlock. He may as well be a father to you.” She says it as nonchalantly as possible, hiding her own uncertainty over her daughter’s parentage. She certainly had Sherlock in mind when she said it.

“You said father, not Sherlock or _that bloody fool_ as you so enjoy calling him.”

“It was a slip. I was referring to Sherlock seeing as how he and John are your father-figures. You know what happened to your real father.”

Lorena sighs, and Irene hears her sink deeper into the couch cushions. “I know. I suppose I just wish sometimes that it was Sherlock. Or John. At least then I’d have a father. A real one who’s always been around.” She’s never sounded quite so forlorn over the subject, and Irene’s not certain if this is another ploy for information or not.

She needn’t have worried. A moment later, she hears Lorena roll over on the couch and start reciting Latin. (No eleven year old should be so fluent in Latin. Mycroft must be to blame.) And Irene can breathe a sigh of relief that the awkward questions have passed for the time being.

It could well be easier to be in Vermont with Sherlock and John looking into the outbreak than to deal with Lorena’s questions.


	14. April 1908

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place long after 'Riding Job'.

John had so looked forward to a quiet afternoon, he really had. But he should have known that that was never meant to be. It sounded too good to be true in the first place.

He’s in the back room catching up on his reading – actually sleeping – when the knock comes to the door, jolting him awake. Times like this, heart racing, it takes him a moment to realise that no, he didn’t doze off on night-watch duty. The knock comes again and he sighs. Client, probably. Well, he’ll just have to explain that Sherlock is currently on business.

Another knock. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbles. “Christ, such impatience.” He gets to the door and flicks over the cover on the peephole. Lorena is the other side, leaning against the doorframe looking bored. Well, she’s unexpected. He undoes the latch on the door and opens it. “Sherlock isn’t in. He and Mycroft are off carrying out some sort of analysis.”

She sighs, the bored look falling away to be replaced with one of relief. “Good. I was hoping I wouldn’t run into him.”

“What have you done?”

She looks him right in the eye, having learned not to shift her view while lying years ago. Sometimes John wishes he never taught her about that. “Nothing.”

“Well obviously you’ve done something, and you’re here anyway so you may let me have a look at it.”

She sighs and takes her left hand out of her coat pocket. It’s wrapped in a strip of a sheet, but the blood has soaked through in places. John sighs. ”I see. Well, you’d better come in.”

“It’s not that bad,” she protests, stepping into the hallway so John can close the door behind her. “I would have patched it up myself but mother insisted that I come to you.” The irritation in her voice is a new one, having only started creeping in a few months ago. She’s chaffing against the bounds put on her by – as she sees it – everyone. John’s listened to Sherlock musing to himself about it more than enough to know how she feels.

“She only insists because she cares and you worry her.” He leads her into the front room, which he still occasionally uses as a surgery when there’s a drought in cases and he wants to pass the time. Moving to New York may have brought him and Sherlock closer to Irene and Lorena, but it wasn’t enough to keep the boredom away.

John sits Lorena down in the patient’s chair and unwraps her hand. There are several cuts of varying depth, one or two still bleeding, the deepest gash being at the base of her middle finger, almost gone through to the bone. “What happened?” he murmurs, turning around to his desk and raiding the drawers. Carbolic acid, iodine gauze, bandages and clips.

“I miscalculated the quantities and one of the beakers exploded.”

“Christ, Lorena, were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“It was completely accidental.”

“You’re lucky this wasn’t an awful lot worse.” He cleans her hand carefully – each individual gash and Christ knows what was in the exploding beaker. She winces, her face a grimace, but she knows by now not to pull back. “I hope you’ve forgotten the formula so Sherlock won’t try to replicate the results.”

“Well –“

“He told you about it, didn’t he?”

She looks briefly ashamed. “He may have made reference.”

John groans. “I will kill him someday for these things.”

“Please don’t. I’m sure he didn’t mean for me to try it. What can I say? I was bored.”

“You are s-“

“So like him. Yeah, I know. Mother says so at least once a week.”

“I was going to say you’re such an idiot, but it’s nice to see that the message is getting home.” She whimpers when he swabs a particularly deep cut. “It’s your own fault.”

She sighs, actually looking remorseful for once. “I know.”

“Just remember this the next time you want to do something stupid. You’re not going to be able to play the violin until that heals. Now, those two are going to need stitches. Hold still.”


	15. August 1910

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, takes place after 'Riding Job'. This is also, coincidentally, the second last chapter in this little collection. The final chapter - which I shall hopefully post tomorrow - will somewhat pave the way for the final instalment in the Buckaroo Fringe series as a whole. That fic is entitled 'To Ride the Glory Trail Again', and is set in October 1914. It will more than likely make an appearance at some point in time this week.

“Christ I’m getting old,” John groans, lowering himself into his chair. He can feel his muscles stiffening after the rain storm that caught him on his way back from visiting a patient. His leg aches where the bullet clipped him all of those years ago, a combination of the wet and the exertion. Pity it’s going to take the fire a while to warm up.

Sherlock grunts from his own chair where he’s studying an article in some chemistry publication or other. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You’re not old.” And then, a murmur to himself, “this is so badly researched.”

“I’m sixty, Sherlock.”

At this Sherlock looks up, eyes wide and his eyebrows almost disappearing into his curls. “You are? When did that happen?”

“It was my birthday last week. You gave me a new set of surgical instruments and muttered something about maybe needing them soon.”

Sherlock blinks several times before the memory comes back to him. “Oh, yes. I did. I remember that bit. Well, that explains why your hair has turned white.” He pauses, and then frowns. “How old am I then, if you’re sixty?”

John rolls his eyes. Frankly, he shouldn’t be surprised at the question. One of those unnecessary things, of course he’s forgotten. “You turned fifty-six last January.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You did. Have you looked in a mirror recently?” His hair should surely be a giveaway with its extensive streaks of grey through the curls, and that’s leaving out the lines around his eyes.

Sherlock smiles wryly. “I’ve been avoiding them for a while.” He shakes his head, marvelling. “I just didn’t think either of us was that old.”

“And you’re supposed to be the observant one. Well, now you know. You also know that I wasn’t being ridiculous earlier. In other news, Mrs Jackson suggested several possible cases for you to look into.”

“If you mean the jewel thief who acquired the blue carbuncle or the perpetrators of the bank heist, I solved them while you were out. Ridiculously simple. Criminals have no creativity anymore. Why did we ever come east There was far more excitement in Alberta.”

“You didn’t like Alberta. Apparently it was too cold.”

“You were supposed to talk me into staying for the rustlers.”

“As Mycroft would say, you were being very intransigent. If I remember it right, I suggested that we go to California and deal with the gold mines. New York was your idea.”

Sherlock grumbles and goes back to his article. “I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t one of my finest moments.”


	16. May 1913

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final instalment, bridging the gap between 'Riding Job' and 'To Ride the Glory Trail Again'.

“I hope you realise that this is completely and utterly your fault,” John grumbles, slipping his key into the lock and turning it. “ _Take the left, I’ll deal with the right._ If I’d dealt with the right, he wouldn’t have gotten you into a headlock and I wouldn’t have gone into the Hudson.” He’s still tinkering with the lock, his fingers cold and numb. A pool of water has gathered at their feet. “And if I hadn’t into the Hudson, then you wouldn’t have sprained your wrist and would be able to open the bloody door.”

Sherlock sighs, wearing such a put-upon look that John would dearly love to hit him, and would have too if the lock hadn’t clicked open at that moment. “Yes, John. I know. Next time we’ll do things differently. You have now thoroughly reiterated what an idiot I am. The information has been logged.”

“Well it bloody well better have. Now, upstairs, change into dry clothes and I’ll see to your wrist then.”

“What happened to you two? You both look like drowned rats.” Irene’s voice echoes around the hall, and they both jump, heads whipping around to see her standing in the doorway of the back room. Her face is pale, washed out, grey hair hanging limply past her shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asks, moving over to her though he drips dirty river water all over the floor. “Is it Lorena? What’s happened?”

She puts her hands up and he stops. “Yes, it’s Lorena. No, it’s not an emergency. Go up and dry off. I’ll put on a fire. It can wait until then.”

John nods. “All right. We won’t be long. Come on, Sherlock.” He tugs at Sherlock’s elbow and the pair of them traipse upstairs, leaving a trail of water in their wake. Irene sighs and slips back into the back room. The fireplace is cleaned out and neat, and though it takes a few minutes – the matches are damp – she manages to get a fire started before Sherlock and John come back downstairs.

After that, she settles back down onto the sofa and it isn’t too long until she hears them clattering down again. John’s snowy hair is stuck up at odd angles from the drying, and Sherlock’s curls still hang damp around his ears. His wrist is swelling, and before she begins to tell them her news she waits for John to bind it for him.

“Well, Irene,” Sherlock says eventually, settling into his chair, bandaged wrist held close to his chest, “what has your daughter done now?” His joviality is forced – he’s worried because she’s worried and he doesn’t even know why that is yet. John frowns and pours him a glass of whisky which he gratefully accepts with his good hand.

“She’s moving to Wyoming.” The words are blunt, without any preamble, because Irene has no idea how to make it easier to say or hear. They roll heavy off her tongue, and tears prick her eyes again, as they did when Lorena told her her plans hardly an hour ago. The empty whisky glass that John was about to fill slips from his hands and he curses as he bends to pick it up, almost getting sprayed with the mouthful of whisky that Sherlock chokes on.

“What? Why would she do that?” John’s voice is faint, almost drowned out by Sherlock’s continued coughing. “Take another mouthful, it’ll settle you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse.

“She plans to work as detective out there,” Irene goes on, shooting a glance at Sherlock whose face has paled. “Apparently Mycroft already knows and has been helping her out with contacts. I can’t say I’m pleased about it.”

“Well,” John murmurs, dropping heavy onto the sofa beside Irene. “Well.”

Sherlock still doesn’t say anything, simply staring at Irene as if stunned.

“I’ve told her that I’ll help her however I can.” Irene adds, fingers fiddling at the sleeve of her dress.

“I don’t see what else we can do. We’d hardly manage to talk her out of it.” John is taking it better than she’d thought he would. If anything, she’d thought he’d be the one to go into a state of shock out of worry for Lorena’s life choices, and that Sherlock would rejoice. Apparently not.

Hardly does the thought cross Irene’s mind, when she hears the front door bang shut, and the distinctive tread of Lorena’s footsteps in the hall. It snaps Sherlock out of his reverie, and he jumps to his feet.

“I’m going for a walk,” he declares and leaves. The door bangs behind him as Lorena steps into the back room.

“He didn’t take it well then, did he?” she sighs, sounding dispirited as she walks over to the sofa.

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll come round,” John assures her.

* * *

 

Hours pass. Hours of waiting and wondering when exactly would Sherlock come back. With him it could take a while once he gets a notion in his head. Irene leaves eventually, still not wholly reconciled to the idea of her daughter going to Wyoming, never mind the bit about her working as a detective. She could protest, she supposes, say it’s not safe for a young girl. But Lorena isn’t a young girl anymore – she’s twenty-one and Irene herself was a lot younger than that when she left home.

Lorena stays with John, and they sit in by the fire, talking. Ever since she was a little girl, she’s wanted to grow up and become a detective – well, apart from a brief spell when she was thirteen and thought medicine might lie in her future – and now she has the chance. She’s grateful for Mycroft’s help, though he did react badly when she first went to him a few months ago with her plans, and also grateful for both her mother’s resigned support and John’s offer of help. But it’s Sherlock’s opinion that, strangely, matters the most. She’s always looked up to him, and if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea – and he’d be the man to know – then maybe, just maybe, she should reconsider.

It’s getting dark outside when he does come back, the city’s street lamps slowly flickering on. He steps into the back room, tired and worn, his wrist clearly troubling him. But when his eyes meet Lorena’s, he smiles, just slightly.

John looks between the two of them and sighs, nodding to himself. “I’ll go and make some coffee.” It’s an excuse, and Sherlock and Lorena alike know it though neither will point it out to him. Hell, he probably knows that they know. He leaves and they hear him go into the kitchen. Sherlock moves over to the sofa and sits beside Lorena, not looking at her, instead seeming very interested in the fire.

He’s studying her out of the side of his eye, his mind still whirling though it’s settled compared to what it was earlier. Privately, he’s wondering when she grew up. Even her hair has changed from what it was, darkening into black from the blonde of her childhood. Those days are far behind her now, and he sighs. John’s right. They are – as he so often bemoans – getting old.

“I never wanted this life for you,” Sherlock murmurs at last. “I never even thought you’d consider it. To be honest, I can’t recommend becoming a consulting detective, not for you. It’s difficult, and all it’s given me is an impressive collection of scars. I don’t want you to have to go through that as well, and nor does your mother or John or even Mycroft. You’re too important to us all for us to want to see you in danger like that, and we’ve always done everything in our power to ensure that you wouldn’t be. Yet,” he looks at her now, and she’s certain that she’s never seen his eyes so serious, though he breaks it with another slight smile, “I am touched that you would consider it. And you certainly have plenty of capability in the area of observation and deduction. And while I’m not pleased with your choice, I will do everything that I can to help you and support you.”

Tears burn Lorena’s eyes, though she manages to work up a smile for him. “You never could have settled to anything else anyway and you know that. And I’m not certain if there’s anything else that I could bring myself to do. I’ve never been cut out to be governess or anything like what all the other girls have in mind. I’ve always wanted to do what you do.” She hugs him, and he’s briefly taken aback before he tentatively wraps his arms around her. “I promise I’ll write all of the time. And send lots of telegrams about cases, and I’ll even visit every now and then. Not to mention it’ll give you and John an excuse to go west again.” She knows that they both get a longing, every now and then, to be back out there again, though they did lose their enthusiasm for it somewhat after Marshal Lestrade got killed. She knows that too, but there’s no need to state the obvious. “And if I don’t like it, I’ll come back and go to the Women’s Medical College.” That should placate him.

“You just be careful out there, all right? It’s not the same as it used to be, but your mother won’t want to get any telegram saying that you’ve gotten yourself shot.” His voice is hoarse, and if Lorena isn’t mistaken, it’s tears that have left him hoarse. She hugs him tighter to hide her own tears. Of course he’ll support her. She was foolish to think otherwise, he just needs a little time. It’s to be expected. “I’ll gather some of my old notes together for you. You might need them.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“It’s my pleasure, Lorena.” He presses a kiss to her hair and hastily wipes his eyes. “Now. John ought to have that coffee done. It’s been an age since he went for it.”


End file.
